Journey

Tea led us to farmers. Farmers led us to forests. And forests led us to Owase. In early 2026, we traveled to Owase, Mie Prefecture to visit Hayami Forestry. What was planned as a brief meeting became a four-hour conversation, followed by a walk through the mountains. As we moved deeper into the forest, Mr. Hayami shared the story of the trees around us. Some were planted 50 years ago. Others 70. Some nearly 80 years old, planted in the years following the war. Standing among them, it became impossible to see hinoki as simply a material. Each tree carried decades of time. Each forest carried the work of generations. What fascinated us most was learning that the wood used to produce hinoki oil often begins as what would otherwise be considered waste. Branches, offcuts, and unused portions are gathered and distilled. Nearly two tons of wood yield only around twenty kilograms of essential oil. The older the tree, the deeper and more complex the fragrance becomes. For our incense, the oil is extracted from 80-year-old Owase hinoki and then transported to Awaji Island, the historic heart of Japanese incense making. There, it is transformed into incense using techniques refined over centuries. The final fragrance was entrusted to SARI, a perfumer introduced through a friend. Her sensitivity to scent is extraordinary. Delicate yet expressive, she composes fragrances the way a musician composes melodies—layer by layer, note by note, searching for harmony. Today, we are waiting for the final incense to be completed. From forest, to oil, to fragrance.   A journey measured not in distance, but in time   We are still building.
One story at a time.

While spending time in the tea room, I began to notice something unexpected—the clothes people wore. What kind of fabric were they made of? Where were these fabrics produced? What kinds of textiles exist in Japan? These questions slowly grew into a new curiosity. I started to wonder: could we create something in America—something like a kimono or a haori—that fits naturally into modern life? In January 2026, Ryu set out on a journey across Japan to खोज fabrics. When people think of Japanese textiles, places like Tango chirimen in Kyoto, Enshu textiles, and Okayama’s indigo denim come to mind. But living in Los Angeles, I wanted something that felt effortless and easy to wear in everyday life. So I visited both Kyoto’s Tango region and the Enshu area. In total, I visited around 15 textile makers, meeting artisans and exploring a wide range of fabrics. And then, I encountered it. The texture of Kyoto Tango chirimen moved me deeply. In that moment, I knew—this was the fabric I wanted to use to create a haori.

Ryu never forgot the moment he tasted Kyoto water in 2020, and spent years searching for its source. At the time, overwhelmed by a fast-paced life, he traveled to Kyoto in search of calm and stillness. At a temple, he drank water—and remembers how his mind quietly settled, as if everything softened. In 2025, through a former colleague, he was introduced to a historic sake brewery and was entrusted with its deep well water—drawn from a confined aquifer over 30 meters underground, used for nearly 400 years. But bringing this water to the United States became a long journey. Few bottling companies would accept externally supplied water, as it required additional sanitation controls. Ryu also insisted on glass, avoiding any compromise in taste—yet glass bottling options in Japan had become limited, with declining demand and few suitable formats. He called dozens of companies across Japan, often late at night from Los Angeles, spending hours on each call. Many declined. Some simply could not take on new clients. Then, in Osaka, Nose Brewery Co., Ltd. stepped forward. Though initially refused, a change in personnel—and persistence—opened the path forward. Protected within its aquifer, this exceptional Kyoto water can be used to prepare matcha—or simply enjoyed as it is, slowly, in its purest form. We are still building.
One story at a time.

I still remember the moment. Years ago, in Kyoto, I drank water at the entrance of a quiet temple. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t flavored. It was just water. And yet, something shifted. My mind softened. The noise inside me disappeared, even if only for a few seconds. It felt as if the water carried something beyond itself. At the time, I couldn’t explain it.   Years later, I began searching for that water again. What started as a simple curiosity turned into a deeper question: Why does something taste “good”? Is it chemistry? Is it memory? Or is it something else entirely?   In the world of wine, there is a word for this: Terroir. A French concept that describes how taste is shaped by place— soil, water, climate, and the invisible life that surrounds it. But over time, I began to feel that this definition was incomplete. Because terroir is not only about what exists in the environment— it is also about what exists within us.   From a scientific perspective, the explanation is clear. Water composition changes taste. Soft water, like that found in much of Japan, contains fewer minerals. It interferes less with flavor, allowing subtle notes—like the umami of matcha—to emerge more clearly. Hard water, on the other hand, can emphasize bitterness or dull delicacy. This is why dashi, tea, and many elements of Japanese cuisine evolved with soft water. There is a logic to it. A structure. A reason.   But science alone does not explain everything. Because when I drink water from Kyoto, I don’t just taste its mineral balance. I remember the silence of temples. The sound of water gently moving through stone. The way light filters through trees. And perhaps more than anything— I remember a feeling of stillness that I had forgotten.   Historically, tea in Japan was never separated from its place. 千利休, who shaped the essence of tea culture, understood this deeply. Tea was not just about the leaves. It was about the water, the room, the timing, and the space between actions. Centuries ago, 豊臣秀吉 held tea gatherings at Fushimi Castle, where tea was prepared using local water from the land itself. Not because it was romantic— but because it was natural. Tea belonged to its place.   Today, we often separate things. We optimize, extract, and standardize. We try to isolate flavor from context. But something is lost in that process. Because taste is not only something we perceive with the tongue— it is something we experience with memory.   I have tasted hundreds of matcha varieties. I have met farmers across Kyoto, Shizuoka, and Fukuoka. I have compared waters, textures, and subtle differences that are almost impossible to describe. And yet, I keep returning to a simple realization: The best experience is not created by perfection alone— but by alignment. Matcha and water. Place and moment. Science and memory.   That is what terroir truly is. Not just the environment that produces something— but the relationship between that environment and the person experiencing it.   When you drink matcha prepared with Kyoto water, you are not just tasting flavor. You are tasting a landscape shaped over centuries. You are tasting culture, refinement, and quiet continuity. And if you’ve ever stood in that place— you are also tasting your own memory.   Terroir is where science meets memory. And perhaps, that is where true taste begins.  

Ryu began by following every recommendation—quietly gathering matcha from Japan and the U.S. As a practitioner of Omotesenke, he was naturally drawn to Yanagisakien and Marukyu Koyamaen, sourcing them through trusted tea houses in Japan. At the same time, he explored what was available in America, comparing each one with care. The difference revealed itself clearly. Matcha from Japan carried depth, balance, and a sense of place. Many others felt distant—perhaps shaped by storage, quality, or a culture of consumption far from its origin. He traveled across Kyoto, Shizuoka, Kagoshima, and Fukuoka, meeting around 20 tea farmers—listening, learning, and tasting at the source. He returned to Kyoto, seeking further clarity. Across renowned producers, he tasted through every tier—sometimes ten or more within a single house. Even rare matcha, priced far beyond retail, found their way into his hands. Cup by cup, the noise faded. After tasting nearly 300 matcha, he arrived here.